


Spoonful of Sugar

by KitsuHime



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 20:25:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13372431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KitsuHime/pseuds/KitsuHime
Summary: Eames can't be trusted to take care of himself.





	Spoonful of Sugar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ilovehighhats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilovehighhats/gifts).



> This is my first foray into writing for Arthur or Eames, but talking with ilovehighhats and reading teacuphuman's fics inspired this little thing. Hope you enjoy.

It had been a strange day. Arthur couldn’t put his finger on why.  Everything went smoothly, going over the layout of the dream, sharing info about the target and their life.  Contingencies were in place, nearly every possibility planned for.  It was going swimmingly.  But it was still impossible for Arthur to shake the feeling that something was _wrong_.  It was like he’d missed something.  He didn’t miss things.  It was part of his damn job to be exceptionally observant.  So what the hell was wrong?  If all the plans for the next job were laid out, contacts and appointments set, and the money all in place, what was missing?

“Alright, I’m shoving off,” Eames said, tugging on his jacket. His tone was different, somehow, a bit lower and softer.

“Night, Eames,” Ariadne said, not looking up from the map she was scrutinizing. Dom and Yusuf had left an hour ago.

Arthur watched Eames pull on a sweater, a coat, a scarf, a hat, gloves… Was it really that cold outside?   His eyes narrowed, lips pressing together as he looked over at his own things.  Just a light jacket with driving gloves in the pocket.  Eames looked even bulkier when all bundled up and shuffling towards the door.  Not looking back, Eames waved over his shoulder.

“Evening, Arth—!” He broke off as an explosive sneeze ripped through him, his curse promptly turned into a fit of coughing.  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a rumpled tissue.  “Evening, Arthur,” he said again, sounding much more nasal.

Arthur was still frowning at the door after Eames had gone. How had he missed that?  Eames was good at hiding things, sure, but how did you hide a cold?  That probably also meant that their weekend plans were off.  Arthur tried not to feel disappointed.  That ridiculous kiss after an anger-fuled sparring session in the gym and ended in a challenge of sorts.  They’d gone on a date.  And then another.  Outside of work, Eames was actually pleasant company, not judging Arthur for ‘letting down his hair’, so to speak.

And why hadn’t Eames told him? Arthur shifted awkwardly on his feet, trying to refocus his mind on the documents in front of him.  It wasn’t like he would have gotten mad if Eames had needed to take a day or two.  Or been upset at canceling plans for their next date.  If it had been for some stupid reason, like Eames staying out late drinking the night before, maybe, but…

It took until he was halfway back to his own hotel for Arthur to recognize the feeling twisting in his stomach as something other than it nearly being dinner time. He was _worried_.  Men were awful at being sick.  Well, some were.  Arthur had memories of his father acting as if he were dying whenever he was laid up with a cold.  His mother had just sighed and taken care of him, bringing him whatever he desired until he was well again.

Seeing her needlessly wait hand and foot on a man more than capable of getting his own orange juice had made Arthur a very stubborn child, teenager, and man where being sick was concerned. Unless he was too weak to actually leave the bed, he took some medicine and kept a bottle of electrolyte water with him at all times, going about his day as per normal.  He could understand not wanting to be showered with attention and babied when he was sick, if that was why Eames hadn’t said anything.  But he also struck Arthur as the type to not drink nearly enough fluids, and just anguish in bed without doing anything beyond taking cold medicine.  If he took anything at all.

“Shit.”

So Arthur found himself at the grocery store, still dressed for work and with a basket full of citrus fruit, orange juice, cold medicine, and soup. Lots of soup and lots of tissues.  He glared down at the basket and its contents, hesitation tightening in his stomach.  Was it too much?  Would Eames even _want_ him to come over?  He might just want to be alone and rest.  But how could Arthur trust a man that had once said that beer was an acceptable meal replacement to properly take care of himself?  If he had been a praying man, he might have turned his gaze heavenward, praying for guidance.

Relationships were not his strong suit. Or Eames’s.  Was it even a relationship?  They hadn’t discussed being exclusive, or anything like that.  They had been too busy enjoying each other’s company.  And despite the few annoyances that usually bothered him at work, Arthur _did_ enjoy being around Eames.  He could make a light-hearted comment about just about anything.  With as grim as the world was, Arthur found it a comfort rather than an annoyance.  He worried less when he was around Eames, too.

His expression had softened by the time he was rung up and back in his car. He at least wanted to _check_ on Eames, make sure that he was still up for the job.  Yes, that was it.  Just make sure their Forger was going to be up to the tasks appointed to him.  But the impromptu care-package in the back seat didn’t exactly scream ‘mildly concerned co-worker’.  And now Arthur was wondering if he should have bought tea.  Eames was British; he’d have tea, right?  Maybe the hotel could send some up?

 

000

 

Eames had already given Arthur a copy of his room key. It had been handed over with a wink and a not so subtle innuendo, but no pressure.  Arthur had thought about taking him up on the offer, but as he rode up in the elevator, a message hovering in the text box of his phone, he felt anxiety twisting in his stomach.  How had he managed to get this far?  Would Eames even let him in?

Shaking his head, Arthur hit ‘send’ and stuffed his phone back into his pocket. If Eames didn’t want company, he could send him away.  But he was still very aware of how his phone sat in his pocket, _not_ buzzing with a response.  His resolve managed to hold until he got to the door to Eames’s room, hand raised to knock.  He, embarrassingly enough, had to take a breath.  There was _nothing_ to be worried about.  It wasn’t as if they were dating, or had any plans to be.  That he knew of.  Eames telling him to fuck off wouldn’t mean anything bad.  It would _not_ bother him.  Not even a _little_.  Just when he couldn’t hate himself any more for being so wishy-washy, he had to catch the shifting bags and the soup cans bounced loudly off the door.

There went his opportunity to just leave the stuff by the door and run. There were some muttered words from inside—probably swearing—and then shuffling towards the door.  A pause as Eames looked through the peep hole.  More swearing.  “I’m sorry, Arthur!” he called through the door, sounding much worse than before.  “As much as I’d _love_ to entertain you, I’m—”

“Sick?” Arthur cut in. Silence.

“Was it that obvious?” Still talking through the door.

Arthur flicked his keycard over the sensor, and pulled the door open. “Not until that last sneeze,” he said.  “You look like shit.”

Gone was the usual boyish smirk, the tanned skin gone pallid. Even the luxuriously fluffy robe from the hotel couldn’t take away the sickly look.  “You have such a way with words, Arthur.  You know just how to make a man feel good about himself,” Eames muttered.  His eyes lowered to the bags, and his eyebrows rose.  “What’s all this?” 

Arthur took a few steps forward, forcing Eames to take a few matching ones back. Letting the heavy door fall closed behind him, Arthur turned into the kitchenette.  The first thing he did was check the cupboards, and then the slightly larger than average mini-fridge.  “Please tell me you’ve been drinking something other than the mini-bar,” he muttered.

“Was going to order in,” Eames muttered, leaning against the wall. “What’re you doing here?  Not that I’m complaining about seeing your ass in that suit again, mind you.”

Retrieving what was probably a whiskey tumbler, Arthur filled it with orange juice, and then thrust it in the other man’s direction. “If you’re well enough to flirt, you’re well enough to drink this.”

Eames took the glass and _sniffed_ it.  “Without vodka?”  His eyes were too bloodshot and puffy for Arthur to really tell if he was joking or not. 

“Drink,” Arthur insisted, more firmly. “When was the last time you ate?”

The critical eye that Eames was obviously trying to level in his direction just looked tired and worn out. “When we had lunch,” he muttered.

“The sandwich you barely touched?”

A pause. “Fair enough.” 

The expression on his face now was one of obvious confusion, and Arthur could feel anxiety twisting again, making his wool suit far too warm. Fuck.  This had been a bad idea.  He should have just sent a few things up with a simple, professional note.  And maybe a comment about not getting other co-workers sick.  But it was a bit late for that now.

“So you’ve come to join me on my deathbed, then?” Eames sipped the juice as he wandered out into the large sitting room.

“You’re not dying, Eames,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes.

“I can’t breathe through my nose, my body can’t decide if it’s freezing or burning up, and I can’t stop—” He dissolved into a fit of coughing, sloshing juice onto the dark carpet before he set the glass down.  When he looked up through watering eyes, he saw Arthur unscrewing the cap of a dark red bottle.  Eames frowned.  “No, I don’t need—”  Another fit of coughing.

While Eames did his very best to cough up a piece of his lung, Arthur poured a measure of cough syrup into the provided little cup. “Drink.”

Eames looked up again when he could finally breathe, and scowled at the cup. “Usually when people tell me that, they’re handing me a glass of something much tastier.  Though I suppose this stuff would have the same effect if I drank enough.”

Well, he wasn’t _wrong_.  But Arthur still held the cup out until Eames finally took it.  It took a particular effort of will not to laugh at the face the other man pulled.  Then he turned the look on Arthur, as if he had done something to insult several generations of Eames’s ancestors.  “Better?” Arthur said, feeling a bit more cheerful.

“You are a _sadist_ , Arthur,” Eames muttered.  He took a sip of juice and made another face.  “Oh that is… Ugh!”  He chugged the rest, and set it down, scowling.

Arthur just grinned. Maybe he was a sadist, but there was something decidedly satisfying about actually getting the other man to cooperate.  The complaining was more amusing than annoying, so that was a decent bonus.  And Eames hadn’t thrown him out yet, either.  “Alright.  You’re not throwing up or anything are you?” he called from the kitchenette.

Eames stretched himself out on the couch, yanking down an obscenely soft cashmere throw blanket. At least he was surrounded by luxury in these trying times.  “No, thank god.”

“And the other end?”

“What the—?! No, Arthur!”

“Calm down. I just got stuff for a cold.  Just making sure I didn’t have to run out again.”  Thank god for overpriced hotel suites; there was actually a small pot and a frying pan, as well as a tea kettle.  “Do you have any—?  Never mind.  Tea?”  A fancy canister on the counter revealed a collection of gauzy bags smelling heavily of bergamot oil.

“I stand corrected; you are in fact a _saint_ ,” was the muffled reply. 

Smiling to himself, Arthur started the kettle, draping one of the teabags in one of the mugs provided by the kitchen. A loud, wet sneeze interrupted his thoughts.  He dumped a can of soup into the pot and started the burner.  Coming back into the living room, he saw Eames fishing through his pocket, and coming up with only used tissues.  Arthur retrieved a trash bin and put it by the couch before presenting Eames with a fresh box of tissues.  He was about to go back to the kitchenette when Eames caught the cuff of his sleeve.

“You didn’t have to do this, Arthur,” he said softly, not meeting Arthur’s eyes.

“Would you have gone and gotten these things if I hadn’t?” Arthur heard himself say. He could feel color rising in his cheeks.  The playful note had left Eames’s hoarse voice. 

“Probably not. Would probably have just sent some poor sod downstairs running all over for me.”

“And spending too much money,” Arthur added.

Rolling a thumb over the back of Arthur’s hand, Eames smiled. “Yeah.  Probably.” 

Then he looked up, directing the full force of that smile at Arthur. Even with his eyes bloodshot and puffy, that boyish smile came right through, blue eyes sparkling.  It did the same thing it always did, Arthur’s stomach flopping around like a fish out of water.  But he smiled back.  If he had known his dimpled grin had the same effect on Eames, he might have blushed harder.

The moment was broken when Eames had to snatch a tissue from the box to catch another sneeze, groaning piteously when he was done, dropping his head back onto the arm of the couch. “Fuck.”

Shaking his head, Arthur returned to the food, stirring the soup and waiting by the kettle. He turned off the burner before the whistle could really get going, pouring the steaming water into the waiting mug.  The smell of tea slowly rose into the air as he readied a bowl and spoon, testing the soup’s temperature.  When it was acceptable, he brought it out, pulling the coffee table closer and nudging Eames.

“C’mon. You need to eat.”  Eames groaned, an arm thrown over his eyes.  Arthur prodded his elbow and got another, more plaintive groan.  “You’re going to eat, Eames,” he said in his best ‘work’ voice. 

That got the arm to move. “I’m _tired_ , Arthur,” he said, as if that solved everything.  “I took that bloody awful medicine and drank some orange juice.  Isn’t that enough?”

“You’ll feel even more like shit if you wake up and haven’t eaten,” Arthur said sternly. He gave Eames a moment to think it over while he brought the tea out, along with a few packets of sugar, a spoon, and a saucer to put the teabag on.  “Milk is just going to make the mucus worse,” he said, when Eames pointed out that he’d forgotten something.  “Besides, there isn’t any.”

“Pretty sure there’s some Irish cream in the fridge,” Eames said, doling out the sugar.

“By ‘Irish cream’ you mean the Baylies?” Arthur snorted. “Pretty sure that wouldn’t blend well.”

Eames stirred in the sugar, glaring at the mug. “But getting a bit buzzed would make me feel better.”

“You’re dehydrated enough, Eames.” Even he could hear his tone gentling.  Eames was always so full of energy, ready with a quip no matter the situation.  While his dry wit certainly hadn’t abandoned him, he wasn’t anywhere near the level he usually maintained.  Arthur didn’t _like_ seeing him sick.  “There’s no lemon, but there’s oranges.  You usually take lemon in your tea, right?”  It wasn’t that he’d gone out of his way to learn how Eames took his tea, he was just very observant.

“I’ll manage the tea without, thank you, Arthur,” Eames mumbled, pausing to blow his nose before bringing the mug to his lips. He couldn’t smell much, but since Arthur had used his tea, Eames knew it would be good, even if he was missing most of the taste with his clogged nose.  But honestly, he did _love_ oranges.  “I’ll take an orange, though.”  Seeing those dimples on Arthur’s face had helped his mood somewhat, but he frowned when Arthur sat down on his other side and started to peel the orange.  “I can—”

“Just eat, Mr. Eames,” Arthur said.

“Yes, _mother_ ,” Eames shot back, feeling smug when Arthur snorted despite trying to keep a straight face. 

Between the tea and soup, Arthur passed him sections of the orange, but wouldn’t put them directly in Eames’s mouth, no matter how much the other man teased. The hot soup and tea made him uncomfortably warm, but he couldn’t deny the comfort of having food in his belly, and the little boost that the caffeine in the tea gave him was more than welcome.  He felt very nearly human.

But he wasn’t so naïve to think that it had nothing to do with Arthur. He could easily have had tea and soup brought up by the hotel staff.  As Arthur would have pointed out, he would have had them running all kinds of errands for him.  But Arthur had brought him soup and tissues, and oranges.  He had made him tea.  He hadn’t done it out of any sense of obligation, but because he had _wanted_ to.  Eames found himself smiling into the cup.

Arthur noticed the smile, and the increased interest that Eames was showing in the food. When Arthur mentioned that he knew how to make chicken soup from scratch—boiling a stripped carcass to make the stock with mountains of vegetables and just a hint of chili powder to give it some kick—Eames gaped at him.  “You never told me you could _cook_ , Arthur,” he said.

“Everyone needs to know how to cook,” Arthur said automatically. His mother had been fond of the phrase, “neither feminism nor sexism will help you when you have to cook for yourself”.  Granted, in the modern world, it was laughably easy to just go out and get ready-made meals, or order take-out, so not knowing how to cook was no longer limited to men.  “I also know how to sew a button back on.”  The last part was meant as a joke, and while Eames’s smile didn’t fade exactly, there was a moment of sadness in his expressive eyes.

“You’re a real catch, Arthur,” Eames said softly.

It wasn’t as if Arthur didn’t know that he had a lot to offer a potential partner, if they could get over his more aggravating tendencies. But to hear _Eames_ , of all people, say that, and not in a mocking way…  Arthur wasn’t sure how he felt.  His stomach was fluttering again, and he could feel a smile pushing at his cheeks. 

“Not like me,” Eames went on. “I can barely boil an egg.”  His tone was light, but a glance in his direction showed Arthur that that sad look was still in his eyes.

“Not being able to cook is hardly a deal-breaker,” Arthur heard himself say. He found that he didn’t _like_ Eames speaking badly of himself.  He was hardly perfect, and had more than a few habits that annoyed Arthur, but…

“Not for you at least,” Eames said, still not looking up.

“No,” Arthur agreed, “not for me.” He hoped that his meaning came across properly, because the words he wanted to say seemed stuck in his throat.  It didn’t matter that Eames couldn’t cook, or if he couldn’t sew on a damn button.  He was good at plenty of other things, and would probably be a catch himself if he found someone.  Arthur didn’t like the way his stomach twisted at the idea that that someone might not be him. 

_‘Oh, shit.’_

The thought hit him like a Kick in a dream, jolting him. He _liked_ Eames.  As more than just a possible lover, too.  He wanted to keep dating the man, to keep going out with him, spending time together outside of work.  Arthur was so twisted up in himself that he didn’t realize that Eames was looking at him until the other man reached over and touched his knee.

“That’s good to know,” Eames said. His smile was… different, when Arthur looked.  Not tinged with sadness like it had been a moment ago, but… shy.  “Means I’ve got a chance then.”

Oh. OH.

Arthur couldn’t help it. He smiled again, big enough that there was a flash of teeth, dimples showing in pink cheeks.  “I take it that means that I’ve got a chance with you, then?”

“Never doubt it, darling,” Eames mumbled. There was a sleepy quality to him now, probably an effect of the medicine.  That didn’t diminish how charming his smile was.  Even when he leaned back in the plush sofa and closed his eyes. 

“If you’re going to sleep, you should do it in bed,” Arthur chided. “You’re not as young as you used to be.”

Eames opened one eye. “You are a cruel man, Arthur.”

Still smiling, Arthur stood, pointing towards the bedroom. “Bed, Mr. Eames.”

“Whatever you say, darling.”


End file.
